


Caught Up

by Koiios



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, Doggy Style, F/M, Fingering, Friends to Lovers, Het, Mild Praise Kink, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Reader-Insert, Smut, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:33:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26544544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Koiios/pseuds/Koiios
Summary: You and Desmond are old friends. Best friends. You haven’t seen him in a while, and a catch-up over drinks leads to something that’s a little more than friendly.
Relationships: Desmond Miles/Female Reader, Desmond Miles/Reader, Desmond Miles/You
Comments: 2
Kudos: 43





	Caught Up

**Author's Note:**

> Desmond has a nice voice and a big mouth, and as such you cannot convince me that he wouldn't be vocal in bed. Also this takes place post-AC3, because I am still in denial.

You’re not sure why you’re nervous. This is Desmond. _Desmond._ A few years ago you two were joined at the hip, inseparable, best of friends. That was before he dropped off the radar, and really you hadn’t expected to hear from him again, but lo and behold he had called you yesterday, apologised for the radio silence, and asked if you’d like to meet up, have a few drinks; there was a lot of catching up to be done, after all. You’d agreed without thinking; the sound of his voice – albeit over the phone - after so long had almost made you dizzy, and the thought of actually seeing him again overwhelmed you. You realised you’d missed him terribly.

But now, doing your makeup, there’s butterflies in your stomach. Scratch that, more like bats. You wonder if he’s changed, if the Desmond you knew isn’t there anymore. You wonder if you did something to upset him, if that’s why he stopped talking to you. There’s a million questions running through your head, and you’re not sure it’ll be appropriate to ask any of them. You don’t know what you’ll say, how you’ll act. You’re not sure if you remember how to be natural with him, comfortable with him. You’ll have to wait and see, you suppose.

You’ve glammed yourself up a bit more than you might once have done to hang out with him, but truth be told you might once have had something of a crush on the man, and besides, this felt almost like meeting him for the first time again. Had to make a good second first impression, after all. Looking yourself over in the mirror before leaving, you have to admit to yourself that you’ve not done a bad job. It settles your nerves a little, to think that you look good. You hope, somewhere in the back of your mind, that he might think so too.

He’s already at the bar when you arrive, and though he’s got his back to you, you recognise him instantly. The short hair that curls into itself at the ends, the broad set of his shoulders – broader now than they were before, you can’t help but notice – the tattoo peeking out from under his shirt sleeve. He doesn’t slouch like he used to – that’s something else that catches your attention – but other than that he seems the same from behind as ever he was. You tap his shoulder to get his attention, and he turns, face immediately lighting up with a grin. He holds his arms out wide, swallowing you in a hug, and you giggle a little.

“Hello to you too, Des,” You laugh, relaxing into the embrace. He feels…firmer. Where once he was lanky and angular, now he is hard muscle. He feels strong.

“I’ve missed you,” He breathes, and pulls away, holding you at arms length to get a better look at you. You don’t miss the way his eyes drift over you, lips parting. Then his gaze is back on yours, “You look well, you been doing okay?”

“I’d have been better if my best friend hadn’t disappeared,” You tease, smiling at him and bumping his arm playfully when he has the good grace to look a little guilty, “But yeah, I’ve been good. You?”

“Much better for seeing you. Been a wild time, lately. I really wanna tell you all about it, but I think maybe it’s slightly heavy subject matter for tonight,” He says, and there’s a sigh in his voice, and you wonder what on earth might have happened to him. He looks a little different: his face is leaner, and he looks wearied, older. Still, he’s just as handsome, if not more so, as you remember him being. Dark eyes still hold the same warmth, the same depth of expression, and the scar that cuts downwards across full lips is still just as appealing.

“Well, then you’ll just have to invite me out again, so I can hear all about it,” You answer, and he nods.

“I’d like that.”

“Just as well, really, because I was hoping to spend the whole night talking about myself anyway,” You joke, and he laughs.

“Glad to see you’ve still got a sense of humour.”

“I hope you still have yours, or did the aliens – or whoever else kidnapped you – take it out of you?” You mean it as a joke, but the word ‘kidnapped’ seems to hit a nerve, and suddenly you’re on the back foot, desperately trying to rewind, “Sorry, was that insensitive? I didn’t mean to-“

“No, no, it’s fine,” He reassures, smiling broadly at you again, and you know well enough to let it slide. He’ll tell you in his own time, you figure, “You want a drink? On me.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that-“

He cuts you off with a wave of his hand, “Please, if I can’t give you the explanation you’re owed tonight, at least let me get you a drink.”

You relent, nodding, “Fine, I’ll have a White Russian, then.”

Desmond nods, and orders you the drink, and for a moment the both of you watch as it’s made.

“You ever miss it?” You ask, and he quirks an eyebrow at you, “The bar work, I mean. You ever miss doing this?”

He shrugs noncommittally, “A little, I guess, but it was a dead-end job. I didn’t have much going for me, when I was working at the bar.”

You frown a little, “Hey, I thought you had plenty going for you. Besides, I’ve missed your Shirley Templars.”

He huffs out a laugh at the name, as though it wasn’t something he had thought about for some time, “Shirley Templar, yeah…God, I was a lame kid.”

“Well, if you were, then so was I.”

“We were quite the pair.”

“Pair of jackasses.”

You cut a glance at him and meet his eye, and then you’re both laughing. He reaches over to grab your hand, squeezing it gently, and suddenly nothing’s funny, and all that matters is his hand on yours.

“I really have missed you, you know,” He says, and though there’s a calm smile on his face he is all sombre sincerity, “I’m glad to have the chance to see you again.”

“I’ve missed you too. A lot has happened since you left.”

“Well, we’ve got a whole evening at our disposal, tell me all about it.”

And so you do. You go into detail about the various relationships and breakups of mutual friends, the petty dramas, the few disastrous dates you’ve had since he left, and the few more successful ones. None that led to anything, of course, but they all made for entertaining enough subject matter. He looks only at you as you speak to him, and though the bar grows ever more crowded as the night wears on, it’s as though the two of you are the only people in the room.

Still, after a while, people are beginning to press in on you, and there’s a line forming for drinks. Desmond throws a wonky smile at you when a man jostles past him to get to the bar, “Maybe we should head out. This place is getting a little cosy.”

You nod, “Agreed. Want to come back to my place?”

He nods, and then he’s up, and leading you by the hand through the crowding people, and out the door into the cool night air. You shiver as the breeze touches your skin, and Desmond notices.

“You cold?” He asks, and you shrug, though you are.

“Its not a long walk to mine, I’ll live.”

“Don’t be silly, here,” Before you can even protest, he’s shrugged off his jacket, and is passing it across your shoulders.

“Desmond…” You begin, but he shakes his head.

“Nope, you’re cold, you’re having the jacket.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling, and you hug the jacket closer around you, “Well, aren’t you quite the gentleman,” You tease, and he hums an affirmative.

“I try to be,” As if to prove the point, he offers you his arm, and though you laugh you take it, fingers curling into the crook of his elbow. Although you know the two of you are just friends, and tonight was a means of catching up, hanging out, it feels like a date. There’d been more than a little flirting between the two of you at the bar, and now, hanging off his arm, you couldn’t help but feel a little giddy. Silly, really, you knew, but it couldn’t be helped. Desmond has an easy kind of charm about him, always has, and it’s hard not to be a little taken with him.

You chat on the way home, giggling together at stupid jokes and funny memories, but as the night air sobers you both up a little you grow more aware of a lingering kind of tension between the two of you. it’s noticeable in the way Desmond guides you across the road, hand at the small of your back, the proximity between you as you walk, the way his eyes drag across your face as you talk to him.

By the time you’re at your apartment building it’s impossible to ignore. You move away from him to tap in the passcode to the building, and as you do so you can feel his eyes on you. He’s stood close enough that you can feel the heat coming off his body, and you pretend you don’t know he’s watching you, though it’s enough that you get the passcode wrong the first time.

“You forgotten how to get into your own place?” Desmond laughs, and you shake your head.

“You’re distracting me, stand further away,” You tell him, pushing lightly against his chest, and he laughs again, obliging.

“Distracting? What am I doing to be distracting?” He asks, though you suspect by his tone he knows exactly what he’s doing. You don’t answer, focusing instead on keying in the right code. You get it right the second time around, and lead Desmond into the building, as he drawls something about ‘second time’s the charm’.

Once you’re in your apartment he sighs, looking around him as you turn on the lights.

“You’ve decorated,” He comments, surprised, and you nod, humming, heading into the kitchen area of your small studio.

“I have. I’m not sure you’ll find much the way you remember it.”

“You’re the way I remember you,” He answers simply, and it catches you off guard a little. You pull a bottle of wine out of the fridge before you answer him, holding it up for him to see in a silent question. He nods his approval, and you grab two glasses.

“And how do you remember me?” You ask finally, as you come to join him on the couch, setting down the bottle and the glasses on your coffee table.

“Funny, kind,” He pauses a moment, and then says, “Very pretty.”

Your heart jumps a little, and you have to stop pouring the wine, looking up at him in surprise.

“You think I’m pretty?” It’s a stupid question, perhaps, but you’re not clear-headed enough to think of anything better.

He nods, and though the Desmond of before might’ve looked nervous, he seems entirely confident. He’s watching you with dark eyes, made darker by the dim light of the room.

“I do. Truth be told I always had a little crush on you, back in the day.”

You smile, blushing despite yourself, and his admission is enough to coax a likewise confession from you, “I always had a little crush on you too, as it happens.”

“Is that one of the things that’s changed?” He asks, straightforward, uncharacteristically confident. Upon your stunned silence he leans forward, taking the bottle of wine out of your hands and setting it on the table. Its just as well – you might’ve dropped it if you’d been holding it a moment longer.

“I-…” You’re not sure whether or not to tell the truth, but by the way he’s looking at you, the way he doesn’t lean back after putting the bottle down, you think you might just be passing up on something if you don’t, “No…no, it hasn’t changed.”

There’s a beat that passes, a moment of silence and still air, and then he’s moving, closing the distance between you, joining your lips in a kiss. His lips and full and soft, and you can feel the slight raised line of his scar as they move against yours. Its different, and intoxicating, and as his large hands take hold of your face your head is swimming. Your senses are full of him, the smell of his cologne, the feel of his hands, his mouth, all of it overwhelming. He hums against your mouth before he pulls back, and he looks flustered but satisfied.

“I have wanted to do that for a long time,” He admits, with a small laugh, and you smile at him, a little lightheaded.

“So why did you stop?” You ask, and the question brings a smirk to his lips, before he’s leaning back towards you. You’re happily trapped between him and the couch as he kisses you again, his arms braced against the back of the seat, fencing you in on either side. After a moment he cups them beneath your ass, lifting you and turning as he does so, so that he’s now the one sitting, and you’re straddling him.

“This okay?” He asks, when your lips come apart from his, and you nod hastily. He reaches up you again, but this time he skips past your lips, and instead starts pressing kisses down the line of your neck. You sigh, melting into him, and as his lips wander so do his hands. You can feel his fingers trace up your back and back down again, gripping briefly at your hips to pull you ever closer to him, before they trail a path down your thighs.

He lips move back to yours again, pressing more insistently this time, and his fingers sink into the flesh of your thighs, powerful and bruising. Your heart is going a mile a minute, pounding hard enough that you’re sure he can feel it against his chest, where you’re pressed tightly against him. Again he forgoes his assault on your lips to press kisses along your jawline, and his hands roam up your body, pulling your dress up as they go. You lift your hips to allow him to slide it up and over them, and then your arms so he can pull it clear of your head. He takes a moment to look at you, on his lap, in just your underwear. When he meets your gaze his eyes are half-lidded, pupils blown, and you fight the urge to cover yourself.

“Jesus…” He murmurs, “You’re beautiful.”

You’re blushing, though with how hot and flustered you are already you’re not sure it makes a difference, as his eyes rake appraisingly over you once more, “This isn’t fair,” You protest meekly, “You’re still fully dressed.”

You don’t need to say any more than that. In one quick motion his shirt is up and over his head, chucked carelessly in the same direction as your dress. Now you can see what you had felt earlier. He is every bit as athletic as you might have imagined, built entirely of lean muscle. Tentatively you lay your fingers against his chest, and as he shifts, leaning back to let you look, you can feel the coil and stretch of the muscles beneath the smooth expanse of skin. He is breath-taking, and though he isn’t entirely the Desmond you remember, you aren’t complaining.

After another quick kiss, almost chaste in comparison to those that you’d shared before, he’s lifting you, standing capably with you still in his arms, and instinctively you wind your legs around his waist. He carries you towards the bedroom, supporting your weight with one arm and pushing the door open with the other, before dropping you onto the bed.

He’s standing over you, tall and imposing, and you lift yourself onto your elbows to watch as he slowly undoes his belt, pulling it from his jeans. Once it’s discarded, forgotten about somewhere on the floor, he crawls over you, hitching your legs up around his waist. He brings a finger to the band of your bra, pulling at it gently.

“Can I take this off?” He asks, and you nod, arching your back so he can reach around to undo it. He’s not quite a seasoned professional, and for a few moments he fumbles with the clasps, and you giggle beneath him, “Don’t laugh,” He admonishes lightly, “I’m trying my best.” After another moment he has the clasps undone, and, proud of himself, he pulls the garment off of you, releasing a slow breath at the sight of you, “So, so pretty…” He muses, before he leans down, kissing his way down the valley between your breasts, and then across the mound of one before taking the nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue across it as his fingers came up to toy with the other one. You gasp as he nips gently at you with his teeth, back arching slightly, and you can feel his smirk against your skin.

“You like that, baby?” He asks quietly, and you nod. There’s a warm wetness growing between your legs, and you can think of nothing else but him, him, _him, Desmond,_ and desperately you scrabble to pull at the waistband of his jeans.

“Take them off,” You request, “please.”

He does as you ask, popping the button open with deliberate languor, enjoying the way you watch him. He means to make you wait, make you squirm, but you can’t wait any longer. Your hands push at the offending garment, and he laughs lightly, pushing them down with a little more haste.

“Eager,” He purrs, and you look away, embarrassed.

“Shut up,” You mutter, and he laughs again, a soft, breathy sound.

“It’s okay, I like it.”

You look back at him again, and the jeans are gone, along with his underwear. He’s on his knees before you, and you can see the hard line of his cock as it juts proudly upwards. All the breath leaves your lungs, “God, Desmond…”

A gentle hand on your sternum pushes you onto your back once more, and again his lips are on you, but this time they wander down past your breasts, across the soft flesh of your stomach. He nips at you, and you squeak, and again you can feel his smile against you as he continues on his journey downwards. He stops at the waistband of your underwear, fingers coming up to tug lightly at it, but before he pulls them off he looks to you, seeking approval.

“Please,” You breath, and then he’s wiggling you out of the last bit of clothing that separates you. Instinctively you close your legs, shy to have his head so close to what’s between them, but with gentle hands on your knees he parts them.

“Let me see you,” He says, voice low, and as you relent and let your legs fall open he presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh, “You’re so beautiful.”

The praise, as he purrs it out, makes your pulse race and something low in your stomach tightens. You’re on the edge of moaning and he hasn’t even touched you _there_ yet. It seems that once more, he’s awaiting permission, “I want to make you feel good,” He drawls, mouth still half-pressed to the skin of your thigh, lips dragging as he speaks, “Can I?”

“You don’t have to ask,” You say, with a whimper, “Just please don’t tease me.”

Apparently, he doesn’t plan to. Without any more prevarication he lifts your legs across his shoulders, letting them hang down his back, and licks tentatively up the line of your cunt. You let out a shuddering breath, head dropping back against the mattress, and the second swipe of his tongue comes more confidently, dipping into your folds, drawing a small moan out of you.

“That feel good, baby?” He queries, and the only answer you can give him is to drag your fingers across the back of his head, pushing him back into place. He hums, pleased with himself, and then his mouth is on you again. His tongue laves at your clit, long, hard strokes, and within moments you’re mewling helplessly, hips bucking against his mouth, wanting more, more, _more, please more._ He can take the hint; as he laps at you, alternating between flicking his tongue against your sensitive nub and sucking at it, he brings a finger up, pushing it slowly, ever so slowly, inside of you. The moan that erupts from you is low and broken, guttural, and your hands push more insistently against the back of his head. You can feel yourself building towards your orgasm already, and clearly Desmond can feel it too, for the ministrations of his tongue grow ever more insistent, matched in their rhythm by the stroking of his fingers against your walls. As your whines grow louder, and you beg him for more still, he adds a second finger, crooking them as he pumps them into you, and soon your toes are curling, legs shaking and clamping around his head, and with a high-pitched keen you’re cumming, eyes rolling back into your head, body spasming.

He doesn’t stop, fingers and tongue continuing their movements in and against you until its too much, and you have to push him off you. He rises back onto his knees, stroking your thighs and watching as you quiver beneath him. He waits patiently as you come down from your high, but in a brief moment of clarity it occurs to you just what you’re doing.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” You say, though it comes out half-moaned, your voice thick with arousal, “We’re best friends.”

“We’re already doing this,” He points out, “But if you want to stop, we can.”

You’re not sure you do want to stop, and he’s right. If there was a line to cross, you’ve long since crossed it. You shake your head.

“No, no I don’t want to stop.”

He nods, once, and shuffles closer to you. You can feel the insistent prod of his cock against your thigh as he leans over you, and the contact is enough to make your cunt throb in anticipation. He leans down to kiss you, giving you all the time you need to recover from your orgasm, hands massaging gently at your breasts, your ass, your thighs, whatever he can get a hold of. It’s not long before you’re moaning breathily against his mouth, and he pulls back from you.

“You want to fuck me, baby?” Desmond asks, voice deep, almost a growl, and you whimper as he leans down further, bracing himself on his hands, lips at your ear, “You want to fuck your best friend? Come on, come and fuck your best friend; your best friend wants to fuck you, too.”

“Yes, please,” Is all you can get out, meek and mewling, and then he’s moving back, watching you as he pumps his dick a few times, before sliding the head through your folds. You moan, hips bucking upwards, needing more.

“Say it, baby. Tell me what you want.” He says, and though he’s trying to sound calm, authoritative, his voice is breathy and broken. He wants this as badly as you do, he can’t wait much longer.

“Fuck me, please. I want it so bad.”

“Good girl,” He praises again, and presses the head of his cock slowly inside you, “Good, good girl.”

He teases you a moment, pressing in and out with just the tip, before you grab at his hips, winding your legs tighter about him, trying to pull him in. He relents, bottoming out, and for a moment he’s still, letting you adjust to the size of him. You feel impossibly full, and its almost hard to breath. The breath comes back to you, sharp and shuddering, as he begins to move, and he groans.

“ _God_ , you feel good,” he growls, pumping languorously into you, “So wet. So wet for me.”

You might be embarrassed by the way he’s speaking to you if you weren’t already so far gone. As it is, you’re overwhelmed, keening helplessly as he snaps his hips against you, building the pace. He reaches a hand down between your legs, pressing the pad of his thumb to your clit, massaging it as he fucks you. It’s almost too much, and involuntarily your legs squeeze against him. He’s moaning too now, low, breathy noises that come with each thrust.

“Look at me,” He commands throatily, and when you open your eyes he’s staring straight at you, and he looks just as far gone as you feel, eyes almost black, lips parted. He holds your gaze, thumb still playing at your clit, and you’re getting close again. So close, and as you draw nearer and nearer to your climax your cries are getting higher and higher pitched, until your voice fails you completely, and you’re seeing stars. Desmond fucks you through it, and the sensation is so intense you’re almost brought to tears, sobbing as he ruts into you.

“Good girl,” He praises, leaning down to kiss you as you come down from your high, his thrusts slowing momentarily, “Can you get on your knees for me?”

Your legs feel boneless, and you’re not entirely sure you can, but you nod weakly anyway, rolling up and onto all fours. You hear Desmond hum appreciatively from behind you, slapping your ass, then rolling the flesh in his palm.

“You’re doing so well baby,” He praises, and you feel the head of his cock as he runs it through your folds, “You’re so good.”

And then he pushes back inside you, and before long he’s built to a brutal pace, now chasing his own orgasm. His hands grip at your hips, hard enough to bruise, and his moans are coming more frequently, more brokenly. He bends over you, pressing messy kisses into the skin of your back as his thrusts lose their rhythm, and then with a low growl of your name his hips stutter, and he cums, _hard._ For a moment he droops against you, body hot and hard and heavy against your back, but then he’s pushing himself up onto his arms again, kissing your back once more before he rolls off of you, flopping onto his back on the bed. He lets out a long sigh, and you collapse beside him. He curls an arm around you, pulling you into him, and you lay your head on his chest.

“Guess we’re a little bit more than friends now, huh?” He says, with a tired chuckle, and you can’t help but laugh breathlessly at the absurdity of it all.

“I guess so,” You agree, and lazily he presses a kiss to your head, thumb stroking small circles into your back. You’re both a little sweaty, but neither of you seem to mind.

“I’ll take you on a proper date next time, I promise,” He says, and you smile.

“I’m going to hold you to that, Desmond Miles.”


End file.
